


The Detective's Companion (the saen colony)

by Muir_Wolf



Series: United Federation of Planets (au/fusion 'verse) [1]
Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - UFP, F/M, Pre-Relationship, Star Trek Fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-05
Updated: 2012-11-05
Packaged: 2017-11-18 01:00:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/555131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Muir_Wolf/pseuds/Muir_Wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan Watson travels a very long way to the Saen Colony after she's hired to be Sherlock Holmes' sober companion.  Whatever she's expecting, this isn't it.</p><p>(Star Trek fusion)</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Detective's Companion (the saen colony)

**Author's Note:**

> All of my thanks and love to Lisa & Sin for beta'ing and listening to my crazy rambles <33333

Joan is sitting in the lounge as they move into orbit around Saen. Outside the viewport, the atmosphere of the planet reminds her of Earth. She's traveled a long way to get here, though, and a familiar weather pattern isn't about to throw her off guard—she's read the reports and knows just how dissimilar this colony is to the city she left behind.

“Dr. Watson,” an ensign says from behind her, and she nods and stands, her sweater falling loosely around her body. It should feel odd to be standing aboard a ship without her Starfleet uniform on, but maybe she's grown more used to civilian clothes than she'd thought. It has been almost a year, after all.

“Are they ready for me?” she asks. The ensign looks a bit anxious, and she thinks it must be his first tour. They're just about on the edge of Federation territory, and the Saen Colony isn't known for being hospitable.

“The commander's requested your presence in the transporter room,” he says. She nods, resisting the urge to link her hands together in front of her.

“Well then,” she says, smiling at the ensign even though her anxiety might well mirror his own. “I guess it's time for me to go.”

 

 

Commander Danes shakes her hand firmly.

“Don't know what's brought you out this far,” he says, “but stay safe, Doctor.”

She wets dry lips, but she doesn't bother to correct him again. She knew him a long time ago, when she was still a doctor, and her change of career has left almost everyone she knows uncomfortable. He's not the first person to keep addressing her as doctor, even after she asked him not to.

(“Just because you're not practicing doesn't change the fact that you went through med school,” he'd said, and she'd wondered when personal choice was allowed into the picture, when it became enough that she didn't _feel_ like a doctor.)

“Thanks for the lift,” she says. He nods with a smile.

“Hey,” he says. “You keep in touch this time, all right? We'll be back through this sector in another twenty weeks, if you haven't run screaming by then, but in the meantime drop a guy a note?”

“Haven't changed at all, have you,” she laughs. “I'll do my best.” She pulls back from him and steps onto the transporter pad.

“Take care of yourself,” he says, his voice turning serious, and then he nods to the technician, and the world around her shimmers away.

 

 

Lieutenant Bell meets her planetside. 

“Welcome to Saen,” he says. “Your belongings were beamed directly to your quarters—you'll be staying with Starfleet personnel for the time being.”

“That wasn't part of the arrangement,” she says. “In fact, that directly contradicts my job description.”

“For the time being, Holmes will be staying with Starfleet personnel as well.”

“I thought he'd refused to do so?” she asks. Bell starts down the corridor at a brisk pace, but she keeps it easily.

“Captain Gregson overrode his refusal after he showed up at the precinct more than a little bruised. He's healed all right, Doctor, but—”

“Ms., actually,” Joan says. “Ms. Watson. Or Joan if you like, but not Doctor.”

Bell looks over at her for a moment, and then shrugs. “All right, Ms. Watson, he's doing fine, but in the meantime Captain Gregson insists he stay with the Starfleet personnel, at least until things cool down a little.”

“I've been thoroughly briefed,” she nods. “I had hoped things would ease off somewhat before my arrival.”

“If anything, they've gotten worse,” Bell says. He leads her into an elevator, and she listens to the floors flying past as they head up. The doors open on the twelfth floor, and Bell starts walking again. “How'd you get this job, anyway?” he asks, glancing over at her. “We've been closed to any new civilians for the last eight months.”

“The man who hired me was...insistent. And evidently more influential than I realized.” 

Bell nods. “Thought that might've been the case. Anyway,” he says, pulling to an abrupt stop in front of room 1221, “here's your quarters. Holmes is next door—I'd introduce the two of you, but we've got a bit of a situation in quadrant three, and I'm needed.”

“Thank you,” Joan says. She almost says something more—something like _stay safe,_ —but she bites down around the words. Bell nods, and takes off back down the hallway, and Joan stands alone in front of the door. She holds her hand up to the analyzer, and after a moment it turns green and the door slides open.

Inside, the living quarters remind her strongly of the room she used aboard the _USS Thoreau_. Her luggage is in the corner of the main room, and she glances inside the bedroom and the bathroom to get a feel for the place. Eventually her gaze returns to the door in the opposite wall, near the couch. The door with the lock. 

She's still staring at it when someone knocks on the other side of it, and she bites back a curse as she jumps. _Holmes,_ she thinks.

She walks over, unlocks the door, and pulls it open.

“Ms. Watson, I presume,” the man says, thrusting a hand out towards her. “Sherlock Holmes.”

 

 

Sherlock's sitting on the couch, although he looks to be itching to help her unpack.

“What did Father say about me?” he asks. “There's a synthesizer in the lounge if that's what you're looking for,” he adds. Joan shoots him a suspicious look, but nods, and Sherlock bounces back to his feet. “This way,” he says, gesturing for her to follow.

“He's concerned about you staying clean,” she says, following him down the hallway. “You were released from the hospital this morning, where you underwent rehab. You told him in no uncertain times that you planned to remain on Saen for the time being, and Captain Gregson moved you into Starfleet quarters despite your wishes. I'm here as your sober companion for the next ten weeks.”

“And if I hadn't accepted your presence, Father would have made me _persona non grata_ and had me deported,” Sherlock says, leading her into the lounge and pointing toward the synthesizer. “Don't forget that part.”

“I understand it doesn't feel like it right now, but I'm here to help you.”

“No, I understand completely,” Sherlock says. “However, I've no intention of relapsing, and to be quite honest you're rather wasting both your time and mine. Considering the circumstances, though, and the ultimatum Father presented me with—let alone the very long distance you've come—I suppose we shall both simply have to suffer together.”

“Such a vote of confidence,” she says.

“Sense of humor,” he says, glancing up at her as she gets a mug of tea from the synthesizer. “That's something at least. Now tell me, what were you told in your debriefing? I suppose it was rather thorough, given that you're ex-Starfleet.”

She looks at him, startled. “How did you—did your father—”

“Father's influence or no, given the...delicate situation at play on this colony, you wouldn't have been cleared to be out here if they didn't trust you to handle yourself. You're clearly ex-Starfleet—even the way you stand there speaks to your service. You've been out less than two years, given the way you hold yourself, and the way you immediately place yourself so that you can see each exit in the room.”

“Nice trick. Or you hacked my file,” she says dryly.

“Either or, such black and white,” he says, the first subtle hint of a smile inching onto his lips. “Can't it be both, Watson?”

“Oh, you're going to be a delight,” she says, sitting down on one of the couches. Sherlock stays standing opposite her, his hands templed together in front of him. “How about you tell me why you refused to leave the colony, and why Captain Gregson had to force you into base lodging?”

“I've a unique affinity for solving crime,” he says. “Given that I do it in a consulting capacity, I answer to no one. It's easier to answer to no one when I'm not living on their property.”

“Easier to get hurt, too.”

“That was a simple misunderstanding,” Sherlock says, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. 

“Mmm.”

“What brought _you_ out here?”

“Your father hired me,” she says.

“My father,” he says. “Important man, yes?”

“So I've heard.”

“Important enough to bring you all the way out here,” he says. She looks at him out of the corner of her eye, waiting, and he sits down across from her, his hands perched together atop his crossed legs. “Not that you're out here for the paycheck. Slip-shod colony on the edge of civilization? Imagine it's the perfect place for you do to your penance. You used to be a doctor.”

“You read my file,” Joan says, her face turning blank. “Sounds like you already know the story.”

“The Saen Colony has been in disarray for the last year. We have a higher murder per capita than any other Federation colony. The colony's been closed to any new civilians for the last eight months, and ten percent of the citizens here have relocated to safer places, and yet there are still over one million people living in the five quadrants below. This is not a safe place to be, Ms. Watson.”

“There's also a thriving drug trade,” Joan says, leaning forward. “Like it or not, Sherlock, you need me.”

He scans her face for several moments, and then nods sharply.

“All right,” he says. “Then you need to grab a warmer coat. You can unpack later, right now we need to get to Quandrant Three—the disturbance Lt. Bell left for has resulted in a murder.” He gestures to the comm piece in his ear. “I like to stay in the loop.” He takes the mug from her hands. “I'll be waiting right here,” he says.

 

 

The first case she watches him solve impresses her more than she'd like to admit.

So she doesn't admit it, not right away. Instead she focuses on the fact that he almost got her killed (he did) and that it took him less than twenty-four hours to make someone cry (also true).

He apologizes for the near-death experience, though, and she's always had a hard time dismissing competence. 

The second case, she finds herself helping in small ways, and the way he looks at her, when he figures out the answer, shouldn't make her feel triumphant, but it does.

(Maybe, she thinks, as they sit in the lounge and drink hot chocolate and rehash their third case, laughing at how the suspect had tried to run and Bell had just clotheslined him in a moment of pure perfection, maybe this isn't so bad.)

 

 

“Watson,” he says. She groans, and blinks open tired eyes. “Watson, wake up. There's been a murder!”

“You're way too excited when you say that,” she says, rolling away from him. His hand drops to her arm, and then retreats as if scalded.

“You're making this very difficult on me,” he says, suddenly awkward, and she smiles into her pillow.

“I'm coming,” she says, sitting up and running a hand through her messy hair. “What time is it?”

“Oh-three-hundred,” he says.

She swears throughout her entire five minute shower.

 

 

They're on the far side of the colony, in the mountains, and they're a good hour away from rescue—and that's only if Gregson and Bell heard the emergency signal Sherlock radioed from their half-destroyed comm. Ensign Thompson—the officer Bell sent with them to explore the site the girl disappeared from—is lying unconscious on the ground, a large gash across his chest.

(They'd found the girl; she hadn't wanted to come back easily. Now she isn't coming back at all.)

“You're a doctor,” Sherlock says.

“I used to be a doctor. I'm not practicing anymore.”

“Yes, but it's not as if you just forgot everything you learned in medical school, it's still all up there rattling around in your brain. It must be taking everything you have to not leap to that man's side, but the truth of it is, Watson, that as terrified as you are of messing up, you're the only chance he has.”

Joan rubs her hand down the side of her pants, trying to still the thin tremble wracking her fingers. She pulls in a deep, ragged breath, and then drops to her knees beside Thompson without another word to Sherlock. She's already been surveying the damage, but now she lets her hands peel back the torn cloth, lets instinct take over as she quells the panic rolling around in the base of her stomach.

“Give me your shirt,” she says. “And get my first aid kit out of my bag.”

“Right away, Dr. Watson,” Sherlock says. It's the first time he's ever called her doctor, and she doesn't know whether to punch him or take it as a vote of confidence. She settles on ignoring him, because the wound will need to be stitched, and they're in the middle of nowhere, and able and willing are two different things entirely.

He watches her work silently, though, and her hands miraculously stay steady beneath his watchful gaze. By the time Gregson's men show up, Thompson is stable and ready to be transported back to the base.

“The doc says that was some fine work,” Gregson says, and she smiles with her teeth.

“I did go to medical school,” she says.

(That night, when she's back in her quarters, she throws up until all that's left is bile on her tongue and hands that won't stop trembling. She stands in the shower for hours afterward, and when she finally climbs out Sherlock is sitting on her couch, a cup of hot tea for her and a copy of the last game of the World Series that aired three weeks ago. Saen rarely receives transmissions of Earth entertainment, but she doesn't ask him where he got it—instead, she sits beside him on the couch, and listens to him complain companionably about the sport.

He doesn't call her doctor again, but more than once she bandages him up after some small mishap or other, and he handles her first aid kit with a surprising amount of care.)

 

 

“I want a phaser,” she says. “I'm sure you've seen my file, which means you know I'm fully qualified to carry one.”

“Is this about last week?” Gregson asks. She smooths her hand down her stomach and keeps her composure.

“Is this about last week?” she repeats. “Is this about the man that jumped Sherlock in the middle of the street and tried to murder him? You know, I hadn't thought about it, but it might have something to do with that.”

Gregson stares at her for a long minute. “You'll need to be re-qualified,” he says. “It's been over a year, and you're a civilian now.”

“I'll take whatever tests you want me to take,” she says. “I want a phaser.”

 

 

The cave-in was no one's fault, although it probably could've been avoided if they'd brought Bell with them to talk to the suspect. Be as it may, neither of them are hurt—although there's a decent chance their suspect is lying crushed underneath the rocks. Considering he quite literally brought the tunnel down around their ears, Joan's not taking that too hard.

She leans against the wall, and the next time he paces in front of her she snags the edge of his sleeve. “Sit down.”

“I'm attempting to keep my mind occupied,” he says. “The lack of stimuli is...”

“Not so good,” she says. “I get that. Still, sit down. Pacing isn't going to help.”

He jerks to an awkward stop, his fingers sliding into his pockets, his back stiff. She tugs the shirt sleeve again, and he folds downwards, bending to her touch until he's seated beside her. Even then, his knee shakes restlessly. She watches it for a long minute from the corner of her eye, and then finally leans into him.

Just like that he stills, as if his entire focus has suddenly been redirected to the pressure of her arm against his.

“Tell me a story,” she says.

“Now?” he asks. His voice is strained, but he continues anyway. “I hardly think it's the time.”

“I don't see why not. There's no way you're going to think your way out of this, and it's something to pass the time.”

He licks his lips, and she tracks the movement in her peripheral, her gaze still focused on their outstretched legs.

“I suppose,” he says, “I suppose I ought to tell you about the Woman. Exquisite Romulan lady, possibly a spy, tendency to turn up at the most inconvenient times.” Joan turns and looks at him squarely, and Sherlock's hand skims down the length of her arm distractedly. “Try not to think too much less of me,” he says.

 

 

Week nine, and they're sitting at the small, cramped table in Sherlock's room. 

“What will you do when you leave?” he asks. Joan taps her fingers against her thigh.

“What I've been doing,” she says. “I'm good at this.”

“You're better at other things,” he says. “Enjoy them more, too.”

“Spit it out,” she says. Her voice is a little sharper than she'd like, but he's poking at a wound that she doubts will ever finish healing over.

“You could stay,” he says. “I don't need a companion, but I could use a-a partner.”

Joan frowns. She crosses her arms, turns away, turns back. She lets her arms fall open, and leans in over the table. 

“Why?” she asks. “Why do you need a partner?”

“Want,” he says. “Want a partner. And I'm better when I'm with you.”

There's not really anything she can say to that—not when he's looking at her with such an open face, not when she knows she's better when she's with him, too. There's a scar on her thigh and phaser calluses on her fingers and she thinks she's never felt as alive as when she's at his side.

“We're getting a better apartment,” she says. “I know Gregson wants us safe, but there's being safe and there's living somewhere where I have to go through eight levels of security when I forget my jacket.”

He smiles, and something eases in his face. She can feel it echo along her skin, something near relief and nearer warmth.

“Don't worry,” he says. “I know a man. He says we can get a splendid deal in quadrant two.”

“Oh, so we'll be right in the center of it when they decide to stage a rebellion, that's good.”

“Quadrant two's out?”

“I mean, if you _want_ to be taken hostage again—”

“That was a one-off, it's very unlikely to happen a third time—”

“A _third_ time?”

 

 

Commander Danes stops by eleven weeks later.

“Still here, Dr. Watson?” he says when he meets her for coffee. “Not that I'm not happy to see you.”

“They really don't market this place as well as they should,” she says. “I imagine it could be a huge tourist destination, if they put the right spin on it.”

He laughs, his hand inching closer to hers on the table. “We'll be docked here for three days this time,” he says. “I'd like to see you.”

“I thought we were seeing each other now,” she says, smiling a little.

“Joan!” Sherlock yells, waving frantically from across the street. “Your comm is off!”

Danes looks with no little surprise at Sherlock's motions; Joan rubs a hand across her forehead.

“My comm's off because I didn't want to be disturbed,” she says as Sherlock reaches them.

“All well and good, but we've got a murder, Watson.”

“I'm sure they can handle it without—Joan?” Danes says, looking at her with surprise as she grabs her purse and stands.

“Sorry, Commander,” Joan says. “Duty calls. It was good to see you again!”

Sherlock's already started away, walking backwards as he starts rattling off facts, and Joan has to yank his arm to stop him from walking into a pole.

“I didn't interrupt anything, did I?” Sherlock asks mid-sentence, and Joan shakes her head, swallowing back a smile.

“This is more important,” she says. “Let's go.”

_Finis_

**Author's Note:**

> This is marked as part of a series, because I'm starting something of a pet project - UFP is going to consist of standalone stories set around the same time in the _Star Trek_ reboot!verse (post-Nero). 
> 
> While I may write a direct sequel to this story, there will also be AUs of other fandoms that exist simultaneously in the same 'verse.


End file.
